


Kindling Fire

by FieryPen37



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, Boat Sex, But This is Game of Thrones, Canon Compliant, Dragons, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Introspection, Oral Sex, Season/Series 07, Sex, Sexual Tension, This Stuff Happens, added scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 22:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: Jon and Dany dance around each other before finally giving in.





	Kindling Fire

Kindling Fire

 

After dying, Jon thought things would get easier to manage. After the emptiness, the skin-crawling stillness of being dead, everything else seemed trivial until a raven arrived bearing a royal invitation. Jon squinted into the spray as their longboat cut smoothly through the surf. There was a sharp freshness to the air, smelling of salt and wet rock. Behind him, Davos muttered in his thick brogue about 'swaggerin' up plain as day.' Smuggler habits were hard to break, he supposed.

Dragonstone made an imposing fortress, perched black and brooding on a spar of rock. Tactician to the last, Jon pondered the best point of attack. A flotilla to move men from the mainland might work, only if constructed under the cover of night. Subtlety and not strength of arms would take Dragonstone. With a rueful curl of lip, he wondered if the same might be said for the Queen. They reached the shallows and Jon swung out of the longboat, landing knee-deep in seawater. Icy water filled his boots. Together they hauled the boat ashore and tied it off to a dock. With any luck, he'd have his audience and be back on the kingsroad from White Harbor by nightfall. Jon rolled his shoulders to ease the tension; the Night King's soulless eyes were waiting every time he fell asleep.

A small greeting party waited at the mouth of the stair, Tyrion Lannister among them with his Hand's badge pinned at one shoulder. Ser Davos and the Winterfell men fell in behind him, and Jon squared his shoulders, centering himself. Greetings were exchanged, couched with both politeness and threat, and, at last, they made their way towards the castle.

The Targaryens had built their fortress well, this walled, winding stair appeared to be the only direct route to the keep, easy to defend agains--a deafening, undulating roar shattered the air. Every fine hair on his body stood on end. A dragon swooped and wheeled overhead, glittering green and bronze in the weak sunlight. From snout to tail, longer than a warship, each wing larger than mainsails. Jon quelled a surge of instinctive fear at the sight, at its heels swamped by equally intense awe. Though he knew they were real, had even expected to see them, it was another thing entirely to see the dragons in the flesh.

"I would say you get used to them, but you never really do," Tyrion said with his usual wry wit. Jon watched the three of them twist in lazy loops among wispy clouds.

"They're magnificent," he said, once he found his voice.

Within in the keep, carvings of dragons decorated almost every surface in muscular, writhing shapes, the polished black stone gleamed wetly in the torchlight. Jon took in the impression of cold austerity and yawning space, never far from the crash of the ocean. Though Winterfell was in the cold North, it held an inner warmth. Dragonstone seemed to be curled around a heart of ice. Several Unsullied and Dothraki flanked a dais of carved native stone, and there sat the Dragon Queen.

First impressions are important, as they say, and Jon's was of both awe and disappointment. Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and a litany of other titles, was indeed beautiful-- _very_ beautiful, an insistent voice in his head stressed--but she was also just a mortal woman. Diminutive in stature, fair in coloring. She wore authority well, he thought. The throne did not swallow her, despite her size. She had an asp's tongue, as he soon found out. Sharp words flung back and forth, and all the while the army of the dead lumbered closer to the Wall. The northmen chose him to lead, he could not very well bend the knee at the first opportunity! _In perpetuity._ _Bend the knee_ , indeed! In a fit of pique, the Queen had left him in the tenuous position somewhere between guest and prisoner. Damned stubborn woman! Jon kept his choler in check as the slender Missandei with the curious soft hair and brown skin of Summer Islander led him to his room.

The room was not the cell he'd been expecting. Instead, it was spacious and well-appointed. A large bed strewn with furs, a writing desk and tall-backed chair, a privy closet behind a screen painted with a beach scene. Even the stone had been lightened with a blue-tinged limewash. Fire crackled in the fireplace, adding welcome warmth. A large window, milky panes cracked to allow in fresh air and the rhythmic crash of the sea. _No bars on the windows, at least._ Pleasant. Thoughtful. It did little to calm his ire, though. She asked the impossible, _demanded_ it even!

Jon shrugged off his cloak with a trifle more force than necessary. The bath Missandei mentioned was a huge copper monstrosity, steaming near the window. Jon couldn't think of when he'd last soaked in a tub.

"The Queen would no doubt like me perfumed for supper. Seven hells!" he muttered.

There was nothing else to do at the moment, so he set to work unfastening his armor. He rubbed his thumb over the direwolves etched into the steel gorget; it was both a burden and a comfort. Jon stifled a surge of homesickness, longing for Winterfell, for Sansa and Bran, for Ghost's silent, reassuring company. He missed Longclaw's weight against his hip, but it told him she was smart and wary as well as beautiful. He could appreciate that.

Jon sank into the blisteringly hot water with a soul-deep sigh _. I love this tub._ The height of luxury, stretched at full length in blissfully hot water. For the first time since riding for Castle Black, he felt warm all the way through. Jon spent a languorous quarter hour scrubbing away the sweat and grime of travel and another soaking in the delicious heat. Limbs loose, Jon toweled off and sprawled naked on the bed. The furs smelled faintly musty and felt decadent against clean skin. An unwelcome thought conjured the Queen in a similar pose, pale skin flushed from the heat. His blood warmed at the thought. Exhaling an ill-tempered breath, Jon rose and dressed, finger-combing his damp hair from his face.

 

By the time night fell, after a quiet, delicious supper with his northmen, Jon was climbing with walls with frustration. Restless and irritable, Jon yanked open the door to his room. An Unsullied guard patrolling the halls gave him a curt nod, but otherwise ignored him. Shouldering his cloak, Jon sought the causeway. Perhaps watching the waves would calm his thoughts. Dragonstone proved labyrinthine, and Jon found himself on a narrow roofed terrace overlooking the sea. Fast-moving clouds shredded the moonlight into slivers and dapples.

The diminutive form with her hands against the wall brought him up short. Buffeted by an icy wind, she looked out onto the Blackwater with a serenity he resented.

"I did not expect to find you out alone, Your Grace."

"I am not alone," she replied.

In the dark he saw a hint of grin, and he followed her glance upward. A dragon slept on the overhang. The roar of the ocean had muffled the sound of its great, snarling breaths, the darkness made the color of its scales indistinguishable. He did not flinch, but the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose.

"Overhangs like these were built for dragons. I believe this one belonged to Vhagar," she said. Unsure of how to answer, Jon simply leaned against the wall; a smart man kept a dragon in his sights.

"You could not sleep either?" Jon asked, after a moment. The moonlight gilded her in silver and his breath caught at her loveliness.

"No. There are mountains of problems to be solved, even without your army of dead men. Where shall the winter supplies be stored? Where shall we find grazing lands for the Dothraki horses? How shall I _kill_ Euron Greyjoy when I find him?" the last was said with venom.

"Greyjoy? Theon's uncle?" he asked.

Despite himself, Jon's ire dissipated. He knew better than most how each tiny problem, each like a straw laid upon his back soon felt heavy enough to crush him. The Queen waved her hand, dismissing the issue. Tyrion had mentioned a 'Greyjoy attack.' 

"The same. Nevermind."

"Aren't these problems what a Hand is for? I'm sure Tyrion is more than capable." The Queen heaved a sigh, a startlingly human sound after the impenetrable facade of a goddess made flesh.

"I could not ask for a better Hand, but small details slip whilst we are in the midst of planning to conquer a continent."

"Then delegate."

"I am, but finding which hands are capable and best suited for the task takes time. As I'm sure you know, my _Lord_." The slight emphasis on the title put his back up, but before he could retort, a sliver of moonlight illuminated the wet gleam of her smile. Jon snorted, unable to completely bite back his own answering grin.

"Oh aye. The songs never say anything about kings and queens blinding themselves in reams of paperwork just so their men can take a shit in peace," Jon said. That startled a laugh from her, a hoarse, husky sound that seemed incongruous with such a delicate person. Damn. He liked her laugh.

"It wouldn't make a very good song, I suppose." A comfortable silence settled between them. The dragon snarled in his sleep, wings flexing as if flying through his dreams.

"What is his name?" Jon asked.

"Drogon. For my husband, Khal Drogo. He died." Old grief embroidered her voice and Jon was reminded of Ygritte. His hand flexed, intending to lay over hers. He checked the impulse and cleared his throat. Robb had been the one with the pretty manners. 'Humorless, awkward, and sullen' were Septa Mordane's words for him.

"I'm sorry," he said. The Queen's smile was brittle.

"It was a long time ago."

"There is no shame in mourning. Missing them when they're gone means you cared for them," Jon said. The Queen laid her gloved hand over his. She made it seem such a simple gesture.

"Thank you, Lord Snow," she said. Jon winced at the name. It brought back memories of Thorne and the Wall. Those memories led to the jagged scars on his chest that still pained him on occasion.

"Just Jon is fine, Your Grace."

"Very well, Just Jon," the Queen said, then stifled a yawn.  

"I shall seek my bed then. Perhaps there will be documents enough to lull me to sleep." Jon smiled. He quite liked the mental image of her dozing off at her desk, a braid dragged through an inkwell.

"One can only hope. Goodnight, Your Grace."

"Goodnight."

As she left him to the dark and silence, Jon cursed. Despite himself, despite her headstrong, haughty manner, Jon liked the Dragon Queen.

 

Jon thrust his unlit torch into the damp sand of the beach and dusted grime off his hands. He'd spent his fourth morning on Dragonstone mucking through the caves with several men-at-arms and Dothraki, seeking the dragonglass Sam had discovered. He shook his sweat-damp hair from his eyes, pausing to retie the thong holding back his hair. _Am I primping?_ It was a sobering thought. He liked and admired the Queen. That feeling had settled into the center of himself, grafting into his very center. A special awareness of her presence, studying her when no one else was watching.

How his heart had leapt to his throat when the Queen granted him permission to mine the glass! The thought that at last, someone beyond the North believed him, was a heady one. All the moreso with the Queen's sharp blue eyes trained on him--not blue like the Walkers, but a softer blue, like the sea, that seemed to change in the light. Her noncommittal reply was like a punch in the gut.

"At least we have the dragonglass," he said as he began to scale the steps toward the keep. By her leave--and with any luck her _help--_ soon they would leave Dragonstone and march for Winterfell. The Queen and her advisor Missandei met him on the stair. He nodded in greeting to both of them.

"I wanted you to see it before we hacked it all to bits," he said with a half-smile. The Queen's smile was a token curving of lip. Portentous thoughts weighing on her mind, no doubt. Jon plucked up the torch as they made their way to the cave in silence. A wayward beam of weak winter sunlight caught her silver hair.

"Have my men been accommodating? Do you have everything you need?" she asked.

"Yes we do, Your Grace. Your riders have even tolerated my attempts at Dothraki." That coaxed a reluctant smile from her.

"They put up with mine as well. Dothraki can be very patient when you show interest in their culture."

"Warriors all," he remarked. She shot him a narrow look.

"Much like your wildlings, I imagine. Once the wars are won, we must all learn to live together." He nodded. Jon liked her vision of what she wanted to make of the world. 'Breaking the Wheel' as Tyrion put it. Perhaps he would see it come to pass, if they lived through the war.

Jon dipped the torch into the fire set outside the cave. He shouldered through the narrow passage, winding through several turns before the cavern yawned above them, stories high. He heard her intake of breath and grinned. His reaction had been much the same. Veins of glittering black obsidian unfurled through the native stone, like the roots of a dazzling tree. Tendrils spiraled in intricate patterns, deeper and deeper.

"Ser Davos says the war might be over before we mine it all," Jon whispered. It seemed a sacred place, like a weirwood grove. The Queen matched his tone: "Let us hope we will not need it all." Jon shivered. She was so close he could feel the warm flutter of her breath against his neck. He cleared his throat.

"Come, there is more."

The designs the Children of the Forest carved seemed alien, clear cut in the stone as if carved yesterday. Her awe was palpable, just as his had been. Jon set the torch in its makeshift sconce. The Queen trailed her fingers over the carvings. Her eyes fell on the image of the White Walkers and a change settled over her. A shudder of preternatural fear. Jon, well-acquainted with that same fear, felt the need to hold her, protect her from it. The Queen turned to him, and asked again. _I will fight for you._ _Bend the knee._ The urgency that hounded him said it was pointless to argue such things when the threat was so real, so close.

"Isn't their survival more important than your pride?" Her words brought him up short. He had said almost the same words to Mance, King-Beyond-The-Wall.

Their gaze met and held. Jon felt a subtle crackle, a frisson of excitement as anger melted into arousal. His eyes fell to the lush curve of her mouth, lit by flickering torchlight. Those lips parted, eyes dilated to pools of midnight. He was not alone in his attraction then. Jon curled an arm around her, pulling her close. The press of her body was delicious, soft and sweet.

"Daenerys," he whispered, his voice husky.

Daenerys' chin tilted ever so slightly and Jon bent to press his lips to hers. _Delectable_. Jon leaned into the kiss as she melted, hands curling in his leather jerkin. Her taste was addicting, like the spice and sweetness of tea and cream. His cock surged to full salute at the first tentative brush of her tongue against his lower lip. One hand snarled in her hair at her nape, the other curved around the small of her back. Daenerys tongue flicked against the roof of his mouth as she stood on tiptoe to deepen the kiss. Her hum of pleasure lit him aflame.

"Your Grace?" Tyrion's voice from outside the cave shattered the drugging madness of their kiss. Daenerys broke away and stepped out of his embrace, breathless and flushed. _So fucking beautiful._

"I must go, Lord Snow."

"Aye, Your Grace." 

 

~

 

Daenerys leaned closer to the line of spikes running down Drogon's back, buffeted by a cold, bracing headwind. Her face felt numb, lips chapped no matter how many times she licked them. Drogon's scales radiated warmth, like sitting on smooth, sun-warmed stones, but her face and hands were still chilled. The fur-lined tunic and gloves helped, but as winter settled over Westeros, she would need warmer clothes if she was to fly. Below, on the Blackwater, a small ship bearing her sail made its way back to Dragonstone.

A grim smile touched her lips. A victory won over the Lannisters was like the taste of a sweet morsel. They had paid for injuring Drogon with their ballista. His wings cut smoothly through the air, the spear had done only superficial damage.

_If you use your dragons to melt castles and burn cities, you're not different. You'll be more of the same,_ said Jon in her head. She couldn't place when he'd become 'Jon' to her. Just Jon. After that knee-weakening kiss, she thought. Just the memory made her purr inside. There was no time for such thought for a bloody stubborn Northman such as Jon Snow. 

When all was said and done, the wagon train that sacked Highgarden was in ashes; the survivors had wisely chosen to bend the knee. Except for two. Her joy was tarnished by regret. The Tarly men had refused to bend the knee, she reasoned. But on the other hand neither had Jon, and she hadn't turned Drogon on him. If she was to break the great Wheel, she could not tolerate dissention, her ambition insisted. _Very well,_ Aerys. _Keep this up and you will a Mad Queen just like your father before you,_ her guilt whispered.

"I'm not mad,"she said, words torn away by the wind. Drogon keened beneath her, shaking his great head. Daenerys scratched the scales at the base of his wing joint. Her children always could sense her moods, Drogon best of all.

The black bulk of Dragonstone unfurled below them. Daenerys leaned forward and to the left, and Drogon obligingly banked left.

" _Ilagon_ ," she shouted in Valyrian. Beyond tactile cues, she used a handful verbal ones with her dragons. 'Fly', 'Up', 'Down,' 'Stop', and of course 'Fire.' Daenerys was certain they understood more complex sentences, but for simplicity's sake in battle, short commands were best.

She braced herself for the ponderous shudder of landing on the grassy shoulder of the island's bluffs. Jon Snow stood near the bluff's edge, serious and saturnine. Drogon settled, flexing his claws in the soft grey soil. Cold fear sang through her at the sight of Jon skirting closer. Drogon roared in warning. _What is that fool doing?_ Since they hatched, she had been the only one to touch them. Jon peeled off his glove and reached a bare hand toward Drogon's snout. One large nostril flared red, lips quivering. Daenerys took a breath in to command her dragon, when Jon laid a tentative hand on Drogon's scales and-nothing happened. Drogon accepted the touch with grace.

Daenerys walked down Drogon's folded wing and jumped the remaining distance to the ground. Jon was there to steady her, his hands shaking. _Good, he's brave but not an idiot about it._

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" Jon said, dark eyes intent. His hands were warm and rough around her wrist; she felt flustered under his steady regard. _Stop thinking about how good he tastes,_ she chided herself. Daenerys smoothed her windblown braids and mustered her swagger as they made their way toward Dragonstone. She must look a fright, her face black with soot, ash dusting her clothes.  

"Fine. Are _you_ all right? Drogon could have torn your arm off if the mood struck him."

"Good thing he didn't," he said, with infuriating dry humor, his smile more a grimace. Daenerys frowned. Without her notice, he'd tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, the pretense being to negotiate the uneven ground. Clearing her throat, she said: "A great victory struck against my enemies, Lord Snow." Jon scowled. Such an expression cast the faint scars on his brow in sharp relief.

"Tyrion sent a raven. Ballistae? A rider with a spear?" Daenerys steeled herself against the softening of her heart. He'd worried for her?

"The rider paid dearly for trying to end the war with a thrust of his spear. I'm sure he drowned in the Blackwater. As for the ballista, we will be more careful in the future," she said, satisfied with the deliberate casualness of her tone. Jon's brow forked, dark eyes narrow.

"And the arrow volleys? You should wear armor, Your Grace. Carry a shield at the very least. All it takes is one arrow."

"Armor would encumber me. I trust Drogon to protect me. Besides, if I were to fall, wouldn't it benefit you? My armies would be yours to march where you will." Daenerys regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Waspish and rude, when all he had done was show concern for her welfare. Genuine or not, it had still been freely given. Fighting her attraction to him was her own affair.

Jon stopped, pulling her with him.

"No, Your Grace. Your death would be a tragedy regardless of circumstance. With you-both of us, together-is our greatest hope of defeating the Night King and the army of the dead."

"My words were ill-spoken. Forgive me," she said, squeezing his forearm gently.

"Don't trouble yourself over my feelings, Your Grace. Bastards learn to grow thick skin." When had that half-smile half-grimace that crinkled the corners of his dark eyes become so dear to her? Jon Snow had burrowed under her skin to curl around her heart.

"When you first came here, Ser Davos said you took a knife in the heart for your people. What did he mean by that?"

"Ser Davos sometimes gets carried away."

"So it was a figure of speech?"

Jon's reply was lost in the rasping of Dothraki, mentioning a guest who called himself her friend.

 

Hours later, alone with her Hand in the Chamber of the Painted Table, Daenerys paced before the fire. The comfort of warmth and wine did little to calm her. This plan was idiotic. Capture a wight north of the Wall to give to Cersei? The so-called plan had a dozen moving pieces, dozens more that could go awry.

"I don't want a hero. Drogo, Jorah, Daario, even this Jon Snow. Each trying to outdo each other in their folly. Trying to do the stupidest, bravest thing."

"It's interesting, these heroes you name. Drogo, Jorah, Daario, even this Jon Snow. All the men you mentioned have fallen in love with you," Tyrion said, sipping his wine with practiced nonchalance. Daenerys was grateful for the fire's heat that hid her flush. _In love?_

"Jon Snow is not in love with me,"she said, bracing her hands on the Painted Table. Tyrion smirked.

"Oh, my mistake. I suppose he stars at you longingly because he wishes for a successful military alliance."

She could think of no reply; she paced toward the balcony overlooking the Blackwater. Just Jon, then Cersei, King's Landing and Eastwatch-By-The-Sea, all circled around in her mind as her children circled Dragonstone. A ball of ice had settled in her belly, tension that strung her taut. North and South held traps for her. An army of the dead to the North, a bloodthirsty tyrant to the South. And all she could do was wait.

"I need some air," she said, setting her drink aside. Daenerys pulled on her gloves and settled her cloak. Tyrion polished off his own wine and stood.

"Very well, Your Grace. I shall speak with Varys on coordinating our ships to White Harbor."

The sun was a red ball, sunken low in the west. Rheagal and Viserion hovered over the sea, wingtips skimming the water. Every so often, one would duck their head, jerk upward and scorch whatever fish they caught before swallowing it whole. For her and her children, it was an idyllic scene. _The sun still shines. Where there is light, there is hope._ Below in the bay, there were three ships with longboats rowing to and from, loading supplies for the mission north.

Daenerys looked about, and abandoning dignity for the moment, she swung up and sat on the wide stone wall. Swinging her legs, Daenerys found a moment's peace watching her children fly. The wind caught her hair, tugging it loose from the dragon pin. She pulled it free and let the wind comb its cold fingers through her hair.

"We will be ready to sail by sunrise, Your Grace," Jon, Just Jon said behind her.  Startled, she swiveled to face him. There was tenderness to his usual forbidding expression that made her heart leap a little. Oddly embarrassed to be caught swinging her legs like a child, Daenerys pushed off the wall and smoothed her skirts. Clearing her throat, she said: "And your certain this plan will work?"

"It's the best chance we got," he said with a shrug. Brave, stupid man. Able to discuss this bloody plan that would more than likely get him killed with the same nonchalance as discussing which fork to take on a road!

"Swear to me you will do your best to return," she said, closing the distance between them.

"I swear, Your Grace. I don't think it's my time to go. Not yet," he said, a shadow falling across his expression. Because she couldn't help it, Daenerys laid a hand on his chest.

"It better not be." Her voice was softer, almost husky.

In his dark eyes, she saw the same kindling that she felt within, a crackle of heat. Daenerys rose on tiptoe and softly brushed her lips to his. The low sound he made could almost be described as a growl. Daenerys' answering sound was of almost relief. The pleasure of his touch had haunted her since that kiss in the cave. It filled her now, in her belly, her chest, between her thighs.

"Jon," she whispered, feeding his name back to him as he lunged into a hungry kiss. Jon's arms wound around her, strong and lean, his grip firm as if afraid she would melt away. Daenerys twined her arms around his neck, fingers snarled in his curly black hair. Gods, his _mouth_! Soft, nimble lips moving over hers, clever tongue stroking hers, the rasp of his beard. The tie snapped and his hair fell over his face, tickling her nose as they kissed.

Daenerys staggered a little, carried by Jon's momentum against the wall. The stone was cold against her back, but Jon's warmth made her feel alive. Jon suckled her lower lip into his mouth and bit gently. Daenerys groaned against his mouth, melting into his embrace. If Drogo's passion was rough and Daario's skillful, Jon's was honest, focused in its intensity. Jon's hands roamed over her body, smoothing down her back, cupping her buttocks and pressing her close. The feeling of him was muted by his leathers and her own thick skirts; a savage thought wanted his clothes _off_. Jon pressed his forehead to hers, panting. So handsome gilded by the setting sunlight.

"Daenerys," he said.

There was need and passion in his eyes. If she gave half a word of consent, he would come to her bed. She would be lying if she said she didn't want to. But come morning he would sail north, and if he rose from her bed to climb aboard ship, she would forbid to go. And all would be lost.

"Remember your vow to me, Jon Snow," she said, stealing one last kiss, "Come back."

In the morning, there were cooler words, polite words. Even a joke. _If I don't return, at least you won't have to deal with the King in the North anymore_ , Jon had said. A half-jesting reference to her own gaffe. As he rowed away with Jorah, she felt the ice chill her from the inside out. 

 

The raven scroll was scrawled with a hasty hand, the bird itself near-dead from exhaustion. It had flown far, as fast as the wind could take it to deliver the message. The mission failed; the battle was lost, and they would all die if she did not come. Tyrion begged her to stay.

"If you die, all of us, everywhere, we're all lost!" She knew he didn't only mean the ones who had followed her from Essos. Without her, her children would bear no other rider, and a dragon without a rider could wreak as much as havoc as they could prevent it. The North would fall, and death would sweep over Westeros along with the winter.

It was good to remind herself of the stakes of each decision, for all of their quarreling, Tryion had taught her that. Words bubbled up in her, words that said how she valued him as a friend as well as her Hand, words that would name him as Protector of the Realm should she fall. A clever man like him would find a way to break the Wheel without her. The words stuck in her throat. Daenerys had seen too many people she loved die, had heard too many broken promises. If she died, the world would continue apace regardless of her wishes.

"I cannot do nothing," she said, mounting Drogon.

" _Mazigon, nuha rinar_!" she shouted in Valyrian. Rheagal and Viserion screeched in reply, lumbering after Drogon to the cliff's edge. Tyrion stood forlorn on the cliff side fading into the distance with each sweep of her dragon's wings. _Goodbye my friend, it was a great dream._

 

_Cold_. She had never known such cold that could steal your breath, freeze the tears on your cheeks. Freeze they did until her face was crusted with a film of ice. Drogon and Rheagal keened, their cries sharp and thin with grief in dragon's version of weeping. _Viserion_! Her child! Daenerys cried out with them, a cry rising deep from within, of distilled pain. It broke her voice, made her throat ache with pain.

In her mind's eye, she could still see her dragon falling, crying to her in confusion, in pain, in fear. Viserion had died before her eyes, and she could do nothing to stop it. Of her children, his personality caught the fine balance between Drogon's fearless aggression and Rheagal's calmer, more aloof personality. As a hatchling, Viserion had clung close, often curling on her left shoulder as Drogon took her right. _I will avenge you, dear one. I swear it by any god who can hear._

Drogon landed on the top of the Wall long enough for her and her passengers to dismount before taking wing again. As she swiped at her face, Daenerys wondered if they were looking for him. Viserion had sank beneath the lake, her dragons had seen that. Were they looking for Jon? A low bugle from Drogon caught what her eyes were too weak to see through the blinding snow. _Jon_!

 

~

 

He'd already died once, and come close several other times besides. By the sword, Ygritte's arrows, the Watch's knives, the Night King, and now, by simple exposure. The cold sank into his bones, his limbs were like blocks of wood, slow and unresponsive. Vision blurred, he felt hands on him, prying at his frozen clothes. Dimly, a garbled murmur of voices. He recognized Davos' low burr, then Missandei's softer, precise tones. Hot lumps tucked under his arms, between his legs, over his feet. Then sweet silence and stillness, save for the faint crash of the sea and crackle of a fire reached his ears. Jon slipped back into sleep.

When he woke again, opening bleary eyes, it was Daenerys at his bedside. Grief stamped her cherished features, a bleakness yawning in her eyes. With her face came the memory of what happened beyond the Wall and his heart ached with sorrow. Her dragon, Viserion. Her child.  

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish we had never gone." His voice was a croak, dry and hoarse.

At his words, her face twisted, tears quickly shed and flicked away with a ringed hand. Jon remembered again the searing clinch they'd shared before sailing off. If only he could return to that moment. He could savor the shape of her pressed into his hands and there would be three dragons flying in the sky.

"No, I'm glad I went. You have to see it to know," she said. Jon reached, intending to sit up and embrace her. Weak as a kitten, all he could manage was grabbing her hand and holding it tight.

"The dragons are my children. They are the only children I'll ever have; do you understand that?" Daenerys' insistence on her infertility still puzzled him, but regardless it was a closely-held belief. _She_ believed it to be true, down to her bones. Jon nodded.

"We will destroy the Night King and his army. You have my word."

Still broken in spirit and weeping, he could hear the steel in her voice. _She's magnificent._ If the face of her sacrifice, all Jon could muster through anguish and exhaustion was humble gratitude. 

"Thank you, Dany," he said. A fugitive amusement darted across her features and Jon mock-bristled at her dismissal. Daenerys was such a mouthful, after all.

"Dany?" she repeated, "Who is the last person who called me that? My brother? Not the company you want to keep."

Jon locked that anecdote into a jeweled box in his mind labeled 'Daenerys.' Along with feel of her body and taste of her mouth, he now knew that her relationship with her brother was a complicated one. Viserion, named for Viserys. Now she had lost her only link to her dead brother. Jon's chest tightened, remembering Robb and Rickon. He cleared his throat.

"All right. Not Dany. How about Queen?" he said, in utter seriousness. Her expression softened. _How was she so damned beautiful?_

"I'd bend the knee, but--" Her grip on his hand tightened, ignoring his pathetic stab at humor.

"What about all the men who swore allegiance to you?" she asked.

"They'll see you for what you are," Jon said, his eyelids heavy. The North respected strength, moral more than physical. They would see her kind heart and love her as he--Jon bit off the end of that dangerous, beautiful thought. There was no time, and besides, she was hurt and grieving . . .

"You should get some rest," she said. He could feel her grip relaxing, her cool facade sliding back in place as she prepared to leave. Jon squeezed her hand.

"Daenerys, may I . . . may I hold you?" Jon tried to make it a request that could be refused, but even to his ears it rang of pleading. Daenerys' expression was tender, a soft smile playing at her lips.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said, even as she peeled back the layers of sleeping furs.

"You won't" he insisted.

The cool air of the room was like an assault, instantly soothed by her body curled next to his. There should have been embarrassment--his rescuers had not even left him his smallclothes, but Jon could summon none. Certainly, there were much more pleasurable ways that he had envisioned Daenerys in his bed, but this was just fine by him. The lumps he felt earlier were in fact hot water bottles to encourage blood to flow back to his extremities. Their warmth was comforting, steady.

Daenerys curled on her side facing him, eyes intent on his face for signs of distress. Gently, she laid her head on the curve of his shoulder and Jon tugged the coverlet up over her. A soul-deep contentment seeped into his bones. He felt warm again, whole in body and soul. Her sigh echoed his feeling. Jon's fingers burrowed into the warm space beneath her hair to curl along the base of her neck.

"Am I . . .?"she asked. Jon floated on soft clouds, sinking fast towards sleep.

"No, my love. Lay your head in rest. Cry for your child, if it would ease you. You're safe here with me." Jon said, his words slurred with fatigue. There were tears, the slow, healing kind falling warm and wet on his skin. Jon didn't mind, keeping his grip on her snug. And together, they slept.

 

~

 

_King's Landing._ Named for her ancestor Aegon's glorious arrival on the continent of Westeros. From Drogon's back, Daenerys watched her party bearing her dragon banner meander through the cramped, stinking streets.

"Our glorious inheritance," she said to Drogon, dry and sarcastic. It was a cesspool of filth, stinking of brine, raw sewage and rotting meat. Even here in the South, the air bore the chill of winter. Daenerys' nose was numb and red, cheeks stinging with cold. Drogon's wings cut through a film of oily smoke as they flew over a black pockmark in the western third of the city: the remnants of the Great Sept of Baelor. Cersei had burned it to ash with wildfire. In one stroke, she'd extinguished House Tyrell and burnt centuries of history to nothing. _And this is the woman we will parley with?_

Daenerys urged Drogon to bank left, Rhaegal swooping above them. Since the loss of Viserion, her dragons flew closer together, never far from each other's sight. Grief had settled into Daenerys' center, a black stone within her heart.

Cersei had chosen the site. Their parley was to take place in the Dragonpit, another remnant of her ancestors. The crumbling stone ruin was the bleached white of old bones, the Lannister crimson like a slash of blood across the sand. By now Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of Cersei's Queensguard, had seen the breadth of her armies, a conglomeration of Dothraki, Unsullied, and Essosi. Any sane man would be sweating. The masterstroke was her dragons. _I could stop this farce at any time. If I ask for peace, there must be good reason,_ was the intended subtext. Maybe, just maybe, Cersei's interest would be piqued enough to listen.

"Down there,"she said. Drogon began a shallow dive, his claws striking home with a clap of thunder. She gripped the spikes alongside Drogon's neck and with a graceful dip, he lowered her to the ground. Daenerys paused to scratch the loose scale on the underside of his jaw. Drogon uttered something rasping and low, the dragon version of a purr, she thought. He nudged her gently with his snout, amber-red eyes steady on her.

" _Mirre kessa sagon syiri,_ Drogon. _Ionos iksis kesir toli_ ," she said in Valyrian.

The King in the North stood under the pavilion near Tyrion, looking no worse for wear after his adventures north of the Wall. She couldn't stop the swift beat of her heart at the sight of him, the special awareness of his presence. On her flagship _Dragon's Mistress_ , he'd called her 'my love' and they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms, wrapped in warmth and tender whispers. Of all the thrice-cursed circumstances to find such a strong, dour man with integrity of gold and eyes deep as midnight.

With some effort, she turned her attention to the task at hand. Daenerys picked her way down the steep, crumbling stair of the Dragonpit, attention settling on Cersei Lannister. She was indeed lovely, in a catlike sort of way. Her golden hair was shorn short, the fringe curling at her chin. Odd. Daenerys felt a familiar surge of anger at the sight of the diadem she wore, wrought of burnished silver. Another in a long line of pretenders for the Iron Throne. The expression Cersei wore was one of barely-restrained malice and disdain.

"We've been waiting quite a long time," Cersei said.

Daenerys bit back a startled smile. There was a sort of belligerent courage in her words. In the face of a dragon, Cersei complained about tardiness. Though bitter and brittle, Cersei did have a certain charisma. Jon stepped forward and began his earnest plea, words softened by his Northern burr. Clegane's demonstration with the wight was impressive, Jon's cool, business-like tone moreso. For so long, he'd dealt with the burden of knowing of this enemy, inexorable as death, and being unable to muster any support to help him fight it. No longer.

"I know Ned Stark's son will be true to his word," Cersei said, heavy with expectation.

A long look passed between Jon and Ser Davos, then Jon's eyes met hers, brimming with conflict. For her part, Daenerys tried to convey her tacit agreement to however he chose to phrase it. Cersei's cooperation was paramount.

"I am true to my word, or I try to be. That is why I cannot give you what you ask. I cannot serve two queens. I have pledged my loyalty to Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen."

Predictably, Cersei and her entourage stormed off, leaving her Hand to pick up the pieces. The pavilion was silent as a grave, her entourage standing awkwardly. One Lannister tacksman gathered what was left of the wight's pitiful bones for Cersei's Hand Qyburn. Her dragons were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they were finding a decent meal on Blackwater Rush. Daenerys rose, smoothing her skirts with perhaps more force than was necessary. There was little she hated more than waiting. A gust of cold wind brought them the smells of the Street of Flour, of yeast and baking things. Daenerys' mouth filled with water, remembering the unleavened bread and cold boiled eggs with which sheâ€™d broken her fast hours before.

"Unbend your bloody honor for a one moment! It might've cost us this alliance, and gods know how many lives! I hope it was worth it," Ser Jorah growled, his face red. Jon looked miserable.

"Don't you think I know that? You know what it is to lead men, Jorah. We must trust each other with our lives. I couldn't lie," Jon said, his hand gripping Longclaw's hilt in a reflexive, self-comforting gesture.

"The Lannister cunt isn't going to appreciate your honesty," Sandor Clegane said, hacking into the sand.

"Enough," Daenerys said, her eyes raking the ring of somber faces, "What's done is done. Prepare to depart. Once Lord Tyrion returns, we must set sail. With or without the Lannisters, there are wars to be won."

The grumbling quieted after that. Jorah, Clegane, Theon, Missandei, her Dothraki bloodriders, and Davos with the Winterfell men broke off to discuss the coordination of their tacksmen, men-at-arms and armies. The moving pieces were more complex than any war machine, coordinating the movements of so many. Ravens flew, horses prepared.

Jon paced the breadth of the Dragonpit, brooding. Amongst the rubble and scrubby brush, he bent and picked up a scrap of bone. A dragon's jawbone, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Conversation flowed easily between them. It always had, she thought. Jon Snow, King in the North, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, was surprisingly easy to talk to. It was heady stuff to be the center of Jon's attention, beneath that serious, sable gaze. Daenerys steadied her breathing against the kindling she felt with him so close.

"You're not like everyone else. And your family hasn't seen its end. You're still here," he said, with his usual laconic tone. Beneath the black grief for Viserion, she felt another, older pang. _If I look back, I am lost._

"I can't have children."

"Who told you that?"

"The witch who murdered my husband," she said, without missing a beat. Sometimes just before sleep, she could hear Rheago's thin cries, and see Drogo's empty eyes. Jon's scowl softened for a moment into a look of unguarded tenderness.

"Has it occurred to you that she might not have been a reliable source of information?" Jon, Just Jon said. Daenerys' chest felt tight. What if he was right?

 

~

 

For once, there was a different sort of tension settled in his belly. Daenerys' ship was sailing north to White Harbor, and then--at last!to Winterfell. Jon had done everything he could to prepare for the war to come. With any luck, come spring the living would still have a claim on this bloody continent. That burden he could set aside.

Now, the Targaryen seal gleamed on the studded door. The hall smelled of brine and the eye-stinging stench of tallow candles, swaying in their sconces with the rhythm of the ship. His fist balled at his side. The two of them had danced around each other, sparring with words, flirted, kissed. Nothing irreversible, simple flirtation in the heat of the moment.

Love for Daenerys had sprung up of its own accord, fervent and complete. Lovely of form, fierce of conviction and compassion, sharp of tongue and exquisite in passion, with a hidden humor and a lovely laugh. She had sacrificed one of her beloved children to save his miserable life. Jon knew to his bones that he loved her, and if she would let him, he would lavish her with love for as long as they had left. If she would have him . . . a bastard who pretended to be greater than he was. A grasper of dubious lineage, a pretender of however altruistic of intention. It took all his courage to raise his hand in three crisp knocks.

He waited, in agony. The moments stretched on unbearably. _I should go. She'll have her handmaidens, confidantes, bloody guards. If they see me at her door . . ._

The door opened and there she was, clad in the same sharp-shouldered, fur-lined tunic. Her expression was soft, knowing. Jon's blood warmed as he stepped into her room. Once the door was closed and barred behind him, he was at a loss.

"I did not expect to find you alone, Your Grace," he said, a wry twist to his mouth. A spark in her eyes told him she remembered that first night on Dragonstone.

"This is my flagship in the middle of Blackwater Bay. If an assassin can get past my Dothraki, Unsullied, and the King in the North, perhaps the throne is not meant for me," she said with a shrug, lips pursed to suppress a smile.

Jon swallowed. A fire crackled in the brazier; a film of sweat gathered beneath his leathers. The bed dominated the room. The _Dragon's Mistress_ was a swift, maneuverable ship, but small. Even the queen was not allotted a great deal of space. The furs and linens were turned down, wool-stuffed mattress plumped and inviting. Obviously, he'd caught her as she prepared for sleep. Daenerys leaned against the footboard, fingers woven. Her bare feet peeked from the hem of her tunic. The sight seemed unbearably intimate.

"What can I do for you, Jon Snow?" she asked.

Jon scowled, inwardly squirming. Was she going to make him say it? If he chose to, he could swallow his intentions. There were half a dozen pretenses for coming to her rooms in the night. They could discuss strategy, debate logistics, share summerwine, play _cyvasse_ . . .

"I've come to bend the knee." The words flew from his mouth as if they'd grown wings. Daenerys' multi-hued eyes widened. In this light they looked violet, pupils round and dark.

"If I recall, you already swore your sword to me," she said. Jon closed the distance between them in one stride, heard perhaps her soft intake of breath, ripe lips parting. Jon knelt, knees braced wide to maintain his balance against the ship's pitch.

"Aye. I have much left to swear, Your Grace," he said, his voice low and husky. His accent was so thick it was a wonder she could understand him.

Jon took her hand, and instead of a courtly kiss on the back, he kissed her palm. A lover's kiss. This time there was no mistaking her gasp, the swift pulsebeat beneath his lips. Jon kissed again at the pulse at her wrist, skin silken. Gods, gilded by the candlelight, she was a vision of shining silver hair and pale skin. His hands toyed with the hem of her tunic, tied at the waist. He was already hard, stiff and aching in his trousers.

"W--What would you swear, my lord?" There was a quaver in her voice, but of nervousness or arousal, Jon wasn't sure. Smooth words, flattering words rested on his tongue. Instead, he spoke from the heart.

"I would pledge you my love. From this day, until my last day."

Daenerys gasped, cupping his face.

"Jon . . . I--I . . " He had never known such agony as he did waiting for her to speak. Her face broke into a radiant smile.

"I accept your pledge and offer my own: I swear to shield your back, to protect you and yours with all that I have. I love you, Jon Snow." His throat closed, trembling down to his soul with the force of his feeling. His hands fisted, bunching in her tunic.

"Daenerys, _please_." As inarticulate as the plea was, she seemed to understand.

"Yes, yes," she breathed, shedding her tunic and corset.

The silk of her smallclothes was nearly sheer and Jon salivated at the sight of her skin, pale as cream and so _warm_. Her breasts were lush and soft, adorned with dusky pink nipples. He groaned, lust roared through him. All he wanted was to throw her down and claim her as his. Only his. Mustering control, Jon smoothed his hands down the backs of her thighs. The calluses on his palms felt so rough on her skin. Gently, he nuzzled her smallclothes, nostrils flaring at the heady scent of her. She smelled so good . . .

With delicate fingers he peeled off her smallclothes to pool on the floor. Jon gently nuzzled the downy blond curls shielding her sex, already glistening with moisture. Gods, he hadn't even touched her yet. Daenerys gasped, fingers knotting in his hair. A soft lap of his tongue grazed the pearl of flesh at the apex of her sex. She shivered and he dove deeper, lapping at her entrance.

Her juices flowed over his tongue, musky and sweet. The taste was drugging, enough to drive him out of his mind. Arousal pounded in his ears as he lost himself in tasting and lapping her. When he closed his lips around her pearl and suckled, she fell to pieces against his mouth. Her cry was somewhere between a gasp and a groan, torn from her by the roots. Jon kissed the tender skin of her inner thigh, nuzzled her curls, soothing her as she floated down. She had fallen back on the bed, legs splayed wantonly

"Jon. Gods, Jon . . " Jon grinned, teasing her with another long lick.

"More?" The lift of her hips was answer enough.

Jon dove back in, listening to her sighs and cries. It was incredibly erotic hearing Daenerys Stormborn, who didn't believe in any gods, cry out to them for mercy under the lash of Jon's tongue. Another solely male thought enjoyed that anyone nearby could hear how well he pleased her. Once, twice more he brought her to climax, each more wrenching than the last. He thrust one finger inside her sweet cunt, then two. Her pleas were broken, fevered now, a rough chant of his name, her hips thrusting up against his mouth. The tension was building, sweetly taut. So _close_ . . .

"Enough. Jon, enough," she said, tugging at his head. Jon whimpered, longing to taste her pleasure once more. He blinked at her, struggling to master himself. A faraway thought wondered if she would send him away. _Begone, bastard. You've done all you're good for_. A sobering realization told him he would do it. He would come whenever she called, serve her however she wanted. Then he blinked and it was Daenerys sprawled on the bed, arms reaching for him.

"Come here to me, Jon. I want to please you too," she said, voice deliciously hoarse.

Jon was still fully dressed, so he learned the particular pleasure of having Daenerys undress him. Her small, capable hands, able to master a dragon, shook on the buckles of his gorget, fumbled with the laces of his trousers. Under-tunic and smallclothes soon followed, and he was as naked as she. Her gaze wandered over him, her tongue wetting her lips. A delicate fingertip traced the scabbed scars.

"Do they still pain you?" she asked, warm with concern.

"On occasion," he said, catching her wrist as she began to snatch her hand away.

"Please don't stop."

Her touch was as drugging as her taste. Soft hands smoothing over his body, raking down his back with a hint of nail. The hot suction of her mouth on his nipples. Jon grasped a handful of her lovely silver hair, tangling his fingers in her braids and dragging her mouth up to his. She hummed in approval against his lips, suckling his lower lip in the way he liked. Her hand grasped his cock, aching at being thus neglected. Jon should have been embarrassed by the sound she tore from him in her slow, milking strokes, smoothed by the moisture leaking from the head. Arousal stoked high, his balls aching. Jon grabbed her wrist, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against hers.

"Easy, my love. I don't want to end it just yet,' he said. Her smile was full of mischief.

"Oh, are you suing for peace, Just Jon?" The sinuous upstroke made pleasure gather at the base of his spine. Jon couldn't manage to keep his scowl.

"You are an evil woman, my Queen." Daenerys' smile was like sunshine. Playful, she darted close and nipped his chin.

"Cry mercy, and I will stop," she said, a darting lick teasing his throat. Jon's head fell back. Gods, _yes_. He teetered, caught between begging her to stop and pleading for her to go faster.

"Mercy. Mercy, Dany," he gasped.

"Mmm," she purred, kissing the underside of his chin. He nearly howled at the loss of her hand.

"Come here!" he said, sweeping her up and pushing her under him on the bed. Daenerys' startled giggle was lost in her soft groan. The press of naked skin was heady. Jon took her mouth in a deep kiss, tongues tangling sweetly. Jon rolled her beneath him. His cock teased her entrance, throbbing. Any doubt flew from his head as her legs twining around him.

" _Yessss_ ," she hissed as he sank in. Gods. The pleasure made his eyes roll back in his head. Tight. Hot. Gods, the wet, silken _clutch_ of her!

Jon thrust, soon losing himself in their rhythm, in the heat and pleasure. Sweat slicked their skin, her sounds half-smothered by his kisses. He paused, panting, struck anew by her loveliness. Daenerys. His love. Jon cupped her head, kissing her deep and sweet. Her hands smoothed down his back to cup his buttocks, urging him. Jon thrust again. Pleasure built with each inward thrust, a pounding tempo until she arched beneath him, keening, _wailing_. Jon snarled, slamming deep once, twice, thrice more before the pleasure pierced him and he was coming, spilling his seed inside her. _Daenerys_.

 

~

 

Daenerys purred, languid from Jon's passionate lovemaking. His body was a pleasant weight, his breath and beard tickling the side of her neck. Pleasant aftershocks echoed through her body, his cock still thick inside her. Daenerys petted his tangled black curls, unable to bite back her smile. She had learned to love Drogo, and now she knew there had only been infatuation with Daario. Loving Jon was as easy as breathing. Logic was for the dawn. There she would once again be the Dragon Queen and he the King in the North. Tonight they would just be Jon and Dany. Come to think of it, in his northern burr, 'Dany' had a very pleasant ring to it.

"I'm very glad you chose to bend the knee, King Snow," she teased, nipping the upper curve of his ear. His snort was a soft bloom of warm breath against her neck. Daenerys rubbed the soles of her feet against his calves, loving the chafe of body hair. There was little about Jonâ€™s body that she did not find pleasing. A pearl of sweat dewed at the curve of his throat, Daenerys tilted her head and lapped it up. Jon hummed, hips flexing. Daenerys arched, loving the feeling of him so close.

"I am as well, Your Grace," he said.

Groaning, he slipped from her body and flopped on his back. Without the press of his body, Daenerys shivered in the cool air. She burrowed beneath the sleeping furs. Jon, still naked as his nameday, watched her with an air of restrained amusement. Sprawled on his side with his head resting on his cupped palm, he looked delectable.

"Are you not cold?" she asked.

"I've seen worse," he said, with something like a shrug. A northerner to the bone, he certainly had. Once more, her gaze fell to the scabbed crescents decorating his chest and belly. Knife wounds, and fatal ones.

"May I ask what happened?" The tranquil expression faded behind his usual dour mien. Daenerys took his hand, weaving their fingers together.

"It's simple really. My brothers of the Night's Watch elected me as their Lord Commander. I had seen the army of the dead north of the Wall when I spent time with the Free Folk. I knew what was coming for them, so I did what I had to in order to save their lives. I let them past the Wall. It's never been done before in the history of the Night's Watch. The wildlings are the Watch's sworn enemy, after all. Some of my brothers named me traitor. They lured me outside of Castle Black and stabbed me His voice was hollow, matter-of-fact, as if reciting words from a list. Daenerys felt sick. Ser Davos had been speaking plain truth, Jon had _died_ trying to save his people. Needing him close, Daenerys pulled him into the warm space beside her, throwing the furs over him.

"Jon. I'm so sorry," she said, kissing her fingertips and grazing them over the scar just left of his breastbone. He shrugged again, clearly uncomfortable.

'I'm still me. I get another chance to save people. And I met you." With that, he kissed her palm. His soft smile made her insides melt. Those smiles were hard won, but breathtaking to behold. Now she felt warm down to her toes.

Daenerys mustered up the will to brave the chilled floorboards, only long enough to pour a glass of warm spiced wine for them to share. To a parched throat and cold toes, the wine was ambrosial, rich with cinnamon and cloves. Jon cocooned them both in sleeping furs, accepting the cup she passed.

"Why do they call you The Unburnt?" he asked. She sighed.

"My list of titles is a bit ridiculous. It is an Essosi custom to compound titles after each victory. After the witch murdered my husband, I walked into his pyre." Jon's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

"I had a feeling, that if I laid my dragon eggs on the pyre, they would hatch. That same feeling told me I would not be hurt. 'Fire cannot kill a dragon,' was an old saying of my family. When dawn came, I wasn't so much as singed, and had three dragons curled around me."

"Gods," he said, tracing a wondering finger down her arm.

"That's the blood of the dragon, then. A dragon rider that cannot be burned," he said. Daenerys nodded, taking a swig from the cup.

"The great secret of the Targaryens. Quite a useful trait for dragon riders," she said.

"Then that is why they wed brother to sister, to keep the trait in the bloodline," Jon said eagerly.

"That, or simple tradition. Viserys wasn't sure. He taught me everything I know about our family, Old Valyria, our mother tongue."

"Your brother, Viserys." There was a question in the name. Jon's gaze was soft, his expression one she hoped was for her alone.

"Viserys was cruel, and also a fool. He was the one who sold me to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army to take Westeros. He said: 'I'd let his whole army fuck you, all forty thousand of them, and their horses too, if that's what it took.'"

"Seven hells," Jon said, kissing her captive hand in mute comfort. The old pain welled up, a knot in the back of her throat.

"He was my only family," she whispered, "and for that I loved him."

"I'm sorry, Dany," Jon said, setting the cup aside and drawing her into his embrace.

The conversation ebbed and flowed as the candles burned down. They spoke of pleasant things. Jon told her of Ghost, and his friends on the Wall. Daenerys told him of the wonders of Qarth, and her first flight with Drogon. 

"Now, Dany . . . I believe we have a bit more than a week until we dock in White Harbor." Jon said, almost conversational, if it weren't for his hand skimming down her belly to toy with her curls.

"That's correct. What of it?" she asked, grinning. Jon leaned close for a soft, grazing kiss on her lips.

"I intend to make the most of it," he said. Daenerys drew him in for a deeper kiss. Their troubles beyond the door could wait.

* * *

 

 

Valyrian translation: _Ilagon, 'Down';_ _Mazigon, nuha rinar, 'Come my children!'; Mirre kessa sagon syri_ Drogon. _Ionos iksis kesir toli_ , 'All will be well, Drogon. Jon is here too'

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Comments appreciated!


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